


Sherlollipops - Unreasonable

by MizJoely



Series: 221 Sherlollipops [11]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Gen, Humor, Sherlolly - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-08
Updated: 2014-04-08
Packaged: 2018-01-18 14:16:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1431538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MizJoely/pseuds/MizJoely
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written Pre-Season 3, no spoilers, AU. John and Mary return from an extended honeymoon only to have John dragged to 221B after a frantic -- and somewhat cryptic -- call from Mrs. Hudson. Fluff ensues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sherlollipops - Unreasonable

"Oh, John, thank goodness you're here, it's been just awful!”

Mrs. Hudson ushered her former tenant into the building, practically yanking him by the arm when he hesitated on the doorstep. It was very nearly the middle of the night; he and his new wife Mary had returned less than a week ago from a six month stint in northern Africa for Médecins Sans Frontières. The two were just beginning to feel human again after their long journey home, and had taken that time to get over their jet lag and once again used to being home, with no middle-of-the-night emergencies pulling them out of sleep.

Until now. The only surprise about it was that it had been Mrs. Hudson who'd contacted him, rather than Sherlock. He, on the other hand, hadn't done more than acknowledge John's announcement of their return with a single, rather distracted-sounding text that essentially said good, wonderful, now piss off, I'm busy. John assumed he'd been on a case, only to be informed by Mrs. Hudson that no, it wasn't a case, and could he come over right away or things would just get worse?

“Oh, the shouting, I can't take it anymore!” she fretted as she motioned John toward the stairs. 

Sure enough, he could hear Sherlock's voice, although he couldn't make out what his friend was saying. He was about to ask Mrs. Hudson who he was shouting at and what the problem was – with Sherlock, it could be anything from boredom to Mycroft to an armed gunman – but the unmistakable sound of a smoke alarm going off from Mrs. Hudson's flat distracted them both.

“Oh, that's done it, I've burnt the toast!” she exclaimed before bustling off. “Do straighten things out, will you, John?” she tossed over her shoulder. “Honestly, it's been nothing but shouting for the past two hours and I'm sure that's not good for...”

Whatever it wasn't good for was cut off as Mrs. Hudson disappeared into her flat. John watched her go, somewhat bemused, then turned and looked up the stairs to the flat he'd once shared with the eccentric consulting detective he called his best friend.

Well. It didn't seem as if Mrs. Hudson expected John to find Sherlock shouting at an armed gunman, so he headed up to find out exactly what was going on.

During his and Mary's time away he and Sherlock had communicated exactly six times; once a month, always by text, always initiated by John. Sherlock's answers had always been short to the point of curtness, but he'd always answered. That had been the deal; Sherlock wouldn't bother John except for emergencies (asking him to come home because Sherlock was bored or needed milk did not constitute an emergency) and John wouldn't bore him with details of the work he and Mary were doing. 

It had worked; each knew the other was still alive, and Sherlock knew when the two of them would be home again, John once again available for cases. John had asked for the single week after their return to count as part of the “emergencies only” contact period. He hadn't expected to to get it, of course, and had being pleasantly surprised when Sherlock had actually agreed that the timing would be better if he waited to visit until “after.”

Of course, he'd assumed “after” to refer not only to his and Mary's need to recover from their lengthy time away, but also to the mysterious whatever-it-was that was taking up Sherlock's attention at the moment. Not a case, Mrs. Hudson said, but what?

The door was unlocked as always, and he'd been told time and again that he didn't have to knock, but did so anyway, if only to alert Sherlock and whoever it was he was shouting to ( _or at; via mobile, over the computer, some unfortunate soul in the flat itself?_ ) of his arrival.

No response. Only Sherlock's frustrated voice, the words much clearer now: “You have to come out! You're being completely unreasonable about this and you know it!”

Not ten seconds later John was startled by the sight of a dark gray cat streaking by his feet, squeezing through the door and vanishing from sight down the stairs. He ran a hand through his hair, looking back in the direction from which the cat – when had Sherlock got a cat? -- had appeared. Was that what all the fuss was about? A cat? Surely not...

No. Definitely not. John's eyes widened as he took a few tentative steps in the direction of the short hall leading to Sherlock's en suite...and heard a muffled voice saying something unintelligible.

A muffled, _feminine_ voice.

Too intrigued not to continue on, he increased his pace and made his way into the hallway.

Sherlock was standing in front of the closed bathroom door, one fist raised as if to pound on it when John cleared his throat. Loudly. “Problem, Sherlock?” he asked in his mildest of tones.

“Is that John?”

He started and stared at the closed door, from behind which the question had been asked. Still a bit muffled, definitely feminine – and unexpectedly familiar.

“Molly?” he asked, a bit at a loss as to why their friend had locked herself in the bathroom. Why was she here in the first place? As far as John knew she hadn't set foot inside the flat since that disastrous Christmas party a few years back, well before Sherlock's fake suicide and dramatic return. “Is something wrong?”

The sound of something that might have been a muffled sob had him scowling at Sherlock. “What the bloody hell did you do this time?” he asked, folding his arms across his chest. “Molly?” he said in a louder voice. “Are you all right?”

Another sound – a gasp? John was about ready to beat down the door himself when she finally answered, her voice strained and harsh with some unknown – but certainly not pleasant – emotion. “No, I'm not all right, John, and it's all his fault!”

He knew it; Sherlock had opened his stupid mouth and made some stupid deduction after getting Molly to come over for some stupid reason – experiment, most likely, or to smuggle him some random body part or other from the morgue – and said something that hurt her so badly she'd locked herself in the loo.

Sherlock had the temerity to look offended by her words. Before John could once again demand to know what the other man had done, the self-styled consulting detective was shouting again. “It's not all my fault, Molly, and you know it! You have as much to do with this as I do, and as I've been telling you, you need to come out of there so we can go to the hospital!”

The hospital...that did it. Visions of Molly with a broken arm or concussion dancing through his head, John turned to Sherlock to demand: “Where the hell is the key? Why haven't you just picked the locks by now?” Turning his attention back to the door, going immediately into Doctor mode, he called out to Molly cajolingly: “Molly, it's all right, I'm here now, you're safe. Just open the door and let me take a look, yeah? Let me help?”

“I can't do this, John, I told him I can't, but he won't listen,” he heard her moan in a broken voice. “It's too hard, it hurts too much...”

“It's too late to back out now,” was Sherlock's unhelpful response. John paused in the act of turning to demand that his friend shut up and stop making things worse; there was something in his voice, something John couldn’t identify at first, and then he had it.

Fear. Sherlock sounded frightened beneath his usual cool detachment. Now that John's eyes had adjusted better to the dimness of the unlit hallway, he could see it as well, in the hard set of Sherlock's mouth, the drawn expression, the hollows beneath his eyes... “Sherlock,” he growled, grabbing his friend's shoulder and giving him a shake. “What the hell is going on? What's happened?”

“Her water broke and she locked herself in the bathroom and says she can't do this, that she's not ready and threatens to brain me with the plunger if so much as touch the bloody doorknob!” Sherlock replied, raking agitated hands through his hair and staring at John, wild-eyed and helpless. “She won't let me call the paramedics, she's being completely unreasonable, John! Do something!”

Her water had broken. Her...water...had broken. 

Her _water_ had broken? Molly was...

“Molly? You're pregnant?”

It was admittedly a stupid thing to say, but John couldn't get his brain to wrap itself around the words Sherlock had just spoken.

“Of course she's pregnant, John, nearly nine months gone, her due date is Tuesday next and her contractions are roughly fifteen minutes apart and _Molly! Open this bloody door or I will break it down! We need to get you to the hospital!!!”_

“Molly, please!” John added his own voice to Sherlock's. “Let us in, love, let me have a look, you know I'm a doctor. Or I could have Mary come if you'd prefer,” he added, in case Molly was put off by the idea of a man – even one she knew – having a look up her skirts. Even if there was a baby about to be born.

And just whose baby was it, anyway? Where was the father in all this, why hadn't Sherlock called him?

Before he could ask either of those questions, he heard the soft click of the lock, then the bathroom door opened the tiniest sliver. He saw Molly's tear-streaked face, red and blotchy as she swiped her hand across her nose. “Sorry, John, I know it's ridiculous, but I guess I just panicked. You can come in.” 

Her apologetic expression turned to a glare as she caught Sherlock's gaze. “But not you. You can go fetch a cab. I don't want an ambulance, it isn't necessa...” Her words cut off as she let loose a guttural moan, hunching over and clutching her hands to her stomach as another contraction rippled across her abdomen.

There was pure panic in Sherlock's voice as he said: “That was less than five minutes between! John, do something!”

“Sherlock, call Mary,” John said, as calmly as he could manage as he took Molly's arm and helped her sit on the toilet lid. “Then let Mrs. Hudson know what's going on and one of you call a paramedic team.” He gave Molly a sympathetic look at her squeak of protest. “Sorry, Molly, but there's no arguing with me, doctor's orders. We're going to go to Sherlock's room, all right? I assume the bed is currently free of noxious experiments?”

Molly laughed a bit harder than the feeble joke deserved, but John was glad she was focused on the realities of the situation and no longer trying to deny what was about to happen. Her laughter abruptly turned to an anguished moan and Sherlock was right; the contractions were far too close together now

He glanced up, only to see that the other man had vanished. Good; Mary was the best obstetrical nurse he'd ever worked with and Mrs. Hudson was calm in a crisis, so if Sherlock was contacting them – he was very, very glad he'd allowed himself to be talked into letting a flat less than a ten minute walk from Baker Street – then things would be under control, hopefully long enough for the paramedics to arrive.

After he'd finished his impromptu examination, he managed to once again coax Molly to her feet and led her into Sherlock's bedroom. Tossing the duvet on the floor – what had possessed his friend to purchase one with flowers on it? -- he helped Molly lie down, after ascertaining that, no, she didn't want to remove her loose top, only her skirt and knickers.

He helped her do so after draping the sheet – also flowered, matching the duvet – across her midsection. He instructed her to raise her knees, pursing his lips as he saw that she appeared to have reached full dilation already. More worrisome was the fact that the baby was already crowning.

“Molly, love, this baby is ready to come, and soon. Probably sooner than the paramedics can get here, and definitely faster than the father can. Does Sherlock know to call him or do you want me to have Mrs. Hudson do it?”

For some reason that caused Molly to practically fall into hysterics, she was laughing so hard. Oh dear, had he put his foot in, had she gone the AI route? Come to think of it, he didn't remember hearing about any new boyfriends before he'd left, and this baby was certainly full term or near enough to it that it had to have been conceived well before he and Mary had left for Africa.

Just then Sherlock skidded into the room, having clearly run there. He paused in the doorway, his eyes on Molly although he spoke to John in a soft voice: “Mary's on her way. Mrs. Hudson has called the paramedics and why is Molly laughing?” Without waiting for any response from his friend, he repeated the question to Molly. “Molly? Why are you laughing?”

She caught her breath long enough to gasp out: “John wants to know if he should call my baby's father!” Then the laugher overtook her again, at least until the next contraction hit and turned it into gasps and moans of pain.

With three long strides Sherlock was next to her, perching on the edge of the bed and taking her hand in his. “Go ahead and squeeze,” he instructed her. “And do try to remember your breathing, that's what all those godawful birthing classes were for, weren't they? To teach you how to do something you already – aargh!”

Molly, it would appear, had taken his words to heart and squeezed. Tightly. “One more word,” she grit out as the contraction eased. “One more word and I swear to you, boy or girl, I will name this child Hamish whether you like it or not!”

“Hamish Hooper-Holmes is the most ridiculously alliterative name in the history of ridiculously alliterative names,” he snapped, then flinched as Molly's fingers tightened on his once again.

To his credit, Sherlock did not remove his hand from hers.

To John's credit, he did not spend very long floundering about the fact that this was Sherlock's baby he was delivering.

He was too busy with said delivery to deal with that astounding fact. But as soon as this little one ( _Hamish? They'd considered naming their child after him?_ ) was born; as soon as Molly was taken to hospital, he and Sherlock were going to have a serious discussion.

oOo

“So,” John said as he and Sherlock stood in front of the window that separated them (temporarily) from Lisbeth Ann Hooper-Holmes (six pounds four ounces, 20 inches long, dark curls and the indeterminate blue eyes that could go either bluer or brown in time). “Is there something you want to tell me?”

The two men were alone for the moment. Mary and Mrs. Hudson had visited with Molly and the baby, then Mary had offered to share a cab with the older woman under the pretense that they were both tired – although really it was to give John and Sherlock some time together to talk things over. John was grateful for their tact, although he had a sneaking suspicion his friend wasn't going to make this easy.

Sherlock shrugged, his gaze locked on the form of his sleeping daughter. “Molly and I have been involved since my return.”

John turned to stare at him, outraged. “Sherlock, that's almost two years now!”

His friend shrugged again. “We decided it would be best if we kept our relationship private. You know how the press continued to hound me that first year after my return. Why would I want to subject the woman I love to such scrutiny?”

“The woman you...Sherlock, you do know what you just said, right?” John sputtered. “Love, you said, love, I'm not hearing things am I?” Before his friend could make any response he rushed on: “You said love was a chemical defect found on the losing side. You hate sentiment! So what happened?”

“Molly happened,” Sherlock replied simply. “Just like Mary happened for you. So when she discovered she was pregnant – not her fault, nor mine, we used condoms and she was on the pill but no precautions are 100% foolproof – we decided it was time to formalize things.”

“Formalize...What does that mean exactly?”

John felt as if he'd been run over by a lorry. The two-ton kind Americans called “eighteen wheelers” -- and not entirely because he'd delivered a baby less than three hours ago.

Sherlock turned to him with a distinct smirk on his face. “Once again, John, you see but you do not observe.”

Then he held up his left hand and let John get a good, long look at the simple gold band on his third finger.

“You...that's...you son of a bitch!” John swore, the shocked expression on his face giving way to a fierce scowl. “You two got married _and didn't tell us??”_

Sherlock scowled right back at him. “You said emergencies only, John. My wedding to Molly hardly constituted an emergency!”

John gaped at him for moment, then shook his head in disgust. “You really do take the cake, you know that?” With that pronouncement he spun on his heel and stalked away, steam practically pouring from his ears.

oOo

When Sherlock related this encounter to Molly the next morning – having dozed in the chair by her bedside the entire rest of the night – she shook her head and pursed her lips in that way she had that told him he'd done something Not Good.

“William Sherlock Scott Holmes,” Molly said in her sternest voice. The one that (although he would never admit it to her) reminded him of Mummy when she was disappointed in something he'd said or done. “You need to apologize to John right this instant. I've already apologized to Mary for not telling her, but she said she understood why we kept things to ourselves...just like we understood why she and John wanted to spend their time in Africa completely focused on their work. But,” she added, raising her voice when it was clear Sherlock was about to interrupt, “I thought you were going to tell John as soon as we found out! Why didn't you?”

Sherlock felt that, for a man whose wife had just given birth to a beautiful, healthy baby girl, he was doing an awful lot of scowling. But scowl he did as Moll held her arms out and he reluctantly placed his daughter into them. “John said emergencies only,” he tried, but Molly was having none of it.

“Go apologize, Sherlock,” she ordered. “Or so help me, it isn't too late to change Lisbeth's middle name to Hamish!”

He felt the scowl melt away as he regarded his wife, looking so fierce as she cradled their daughter in her arms. She was completely out of sorts with him, certainly still exhausted from her late-night ordeal...and utterly beautiful. He gave in to impulse, leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to her lips, not moving until she gave a sigh of capitulation and returned the kiss.

“You impossible man,” she said, giving him a fond smile before nudging his arm with her elbow. “Go make things right with John. You've punished him enough for daring to drop everything and bugger off to a different continent for six months with his wife. And,” she added as he rose to his feet to finally do as she'd asked (as they'd both known all along he would), “don't wait until the day before the Christening to ask them to be the godparents, all right?”

The sound he made as he left the room might have been one of agreement...or it might not. Molly sighed, resigned herself to speaking to Mary about it, and pressed a kiss to her sleeping daughter's head. “Oh, your father is going to be a chore, Lizzie,” she murmured as she gazed down at the peaceful sight. “Completely unreasonable most of the time.” She broke into a smile as she added: “But I promise you, he's worth it. Always.”


End file.
